78. Here In The Life Of An Unknown Poet

78.
Here In The Life Of An Unknown Poet

I am not a woman people envy for her confident, got-it-all-together stride.
I am not the person who is called to offer prayer in a gathering of Christians.
I do not sing like an angel, or paint beauty into hungry and inspired artists’ minds.
I am not that woman. I’m not destined for dizzy fame or breathless stolen kisses.

I am a woman who smiles at grasshoppers, and lifts her face to smell rain.
I am a woman standing in the middle of a muddy pasture with hay in her hair.
I am a woman who loses her giggles in quiet corners of inappropriate places.
I am the one who wants to chance wearing purple with green, but chooses black.

I am the mother who knows a special child is always on stage, and should dress accordingly.
I am the desperate daughter and sister who kneels to confess pain before cold headstones.
I am a jealous lover of time, and all things I missed before heaven thrust me 
wet, screaming, and angry into the unprepared arms of my religious mother.

I am not someone you would remember meeting on a sidewalk in Paris.
I am a woman who drops her papers in the crowded hallways of life.
I leave bits of myself to be sorted for future generations to read and wonder; 
“Who was she, to find herself deserving of a legacy in love and words?”